Round 6 Transcript

The rusted key slides into a narrow slot in the stone seam and clicks against a hidden latch; the mechanism releases, halting the slab’s descent and shunting the molten slag back toward the pit’s mouth. The steam vent sputters, sending a thin plume of hot vapor across the rope, but the rope remains intact.

Silra stands slowly after the mechanism engages, dusting her hands off with a grim satisfaction. Well, it seems our gracious host Gravehill was eager to greet us properly—with fire and spikes both literal and metaphorical. Her eyes flick toward Renn, still cowering against Sister Hale's protective form. Something tells me our dear digger here knows more about these underground machinations than he's let on. She moves closer to Jeane, her voice low enough for only the sorcerer to hear. That key was exactly where you said it would be. Too convenient by half. I'm beginning to suspect this whole operation is being choreographed like a cheap play—one that puts us in increasingly uncomfortable positions. Her gaze drifts back toward Renn. What say we have ourselves a little chat about what else might be waiting for us down there? Before someone else decides to spring another surprise on our merry band? She draws her dagger again, twirling it once before holding the blade steady—a silent question posed to their hostage. Because I'd much rather uncover all the secrets now than have them dropped in our laps one molten rock at a time.

The key clicked into place with the satisfying finality of a tomb sealing shut—the sound of victory stolen from death itself. I yanked it free before the metal could fuse to the stone seam in the heat. "That's one trap disabled," I said, wiping sweat and ash from my eyes. The rope still spanned the chasm, molten rock retreating like a tide of cooling blood. "But we're not out of this grave yet." My voice was steady despite the exhaustion clawing at my ribs—I refused to show weakness in front of Silra's sardonic gaze or Sister Hale's unwavering piety. I turned to Gravedigger Renn, who cowered still against Hale's side. "Time for you to earn your keep, friend." I approached him slowly, like a cat stalking prey it has already cornered. "You said the city guard patrols this road at dawn and dusk. Dawn is approaching—we need to know their exact route and schedule if we're to rebuild that church of mine without being arrested for trespassing or worse."

My hand closed around his chin, forcing him to meet my eyes. His fear was a tangible thing—I tasted it in the air between us like copper pennies on the tongue. "Talk fast, Gravedigger. I'm not known for my patience."

I push Renn away from my chest—not unkindly—and step toward Silra with a certainty I didn't know I had left in me. The steam stings my eyes and the heat is unbearable, but I don't back down. "Stop," I say to her, and there's something in my voice that makes even me pause—authority stripped of piety and clothed in survival alone. "We're not like them." I gesture toward Gravehill with a sweep of my arm. "We don't leave people behind just because it's inconvenient or scary."

I crouch beside the pit, the steam scalding my face as I study the mechanism Silra triggered. My fingers find the latch she disengaged—the same one that nearly sent us all to our deaths—and trace its path back through the stonework until they close around a rusted iron handle half-buried in ash and soil. "This is how you open it," I mutter, more to myself than to them. Then louder: "Jeane! Bring me the key from the magistrate's pocket—quickly."